“And there you have it, my lords and ladies.” Noel pulled Elaine to her feet for his bow and her curtsy. “A typical Shakespearean tragic ending—blood and corpses all over the stage.”
There was a spontaneous round of applause. My mother, however, shook her head. “Do you think, as they say, that it will fly?”
Noel looked embarrassed. Elaine gave a rueful smile as she spoke. “My dear Jeanne, A Husband’s House has been reviled by every women’s group on the planet. Snow has a dedicated, but small, cult of gay men who laugh at all the wrong lines. The Tanqueray Tragedy is not mentioned in polite theater society. If Paul Carlucci has another succes d’arte, the only thing that flies will be Paul’s backers getting out of the country before the loans and the bills come due.”
“Let me put it this way,” Elaine completed. “To say we are all nervous is the understatement of the year. We’re already snapping at each other like turtles, daring anyone to make a mistake or upstage us by an inch. That’s not necessarily bad. It can make for very keen performances, as long as everyone knows his lines and his moves and is very, very—up. But if one of us makes a blunder, the timing will all go to hell, which will throw us off our lines, and we’ll go down considerably faster than the Titanic. And I must add, having a nosy, second-rate, dirt-sniffing journalist privy to our every move does not help us hold it together.”
Noel muttered, “Oh, Christ!”
I assumed it was the evening’s closing prayer.
Chapter 11
I suppose if you lived next door to Buckingham Palace, you would eventually cease to pay attention when the Queen motored forth, or Prince Phillip came out to sneer or one of the Corgis picked out a tree and peed.
In any event, we grew used to our new neighbors and ceased to be intrigued by impromptu backyard rehearsals. The actual ones were held at the amphitheater, of course. Perforce, we heard Ophelia practicing her scales and songs. She had a good voice, and evidently had some good training, as opposed to so many of our current American performers. She hit her notes roundly and firmly, could exercise power without screaming and actually enunciated lyrics clearly.
Hamlet had a well-trained voice—both speaking and singing— but somehow he seemed emotionless to me, almost as if he had something else on his mind. Maybe I had just seen overly dramatic interpretations of that role. He seemed cold, though, on stage and off. Horatio, who came to the house next door frequently to work on his scenes with Hamlet, seemed like a lovely, friendly puppy. I thought he and Ophelia were going to make “young” Hamlet look pretty pale.
I assumed Duke Noel and Queenie Elaine would certainly turn in commendable performances. I had seen both of them in other roles. But even these two professionals were having trouble with a love duet, sung just before their wedding and confessing their years of love for each other. Elaine kept chiming in on Noel’s lyrics before she should, and he kept mixing up two lines, which made her responses idiotic. I guessed they would work it out.
We saw little of the other players or crew. In fact we saw little of our neighbor, the stage manager. Nick was gathering what props hadn’t been shipped from New York and storing them in the garage, which he noisily and gratingly and repeatedly declared off-limits to anyone who drifted within twenty feet of it.
He and Harmon had several rumbles about Harmon having access to the yard equipment stored in the garage, with Nick insisting Harmon leave it all outdoors, put it in the basement or, for all he cared, in the effing living room. Finally, Harmon simply put on his stolid, I’m-a-stupid-local face and did as he pleased. If nothing else, he had Nick by about three inches and thirty pounds.
One morning Ophelia called across the wall to me with a horticultural question. Positively thrilled that anyone would ask me something about plants, I cleared the wall in my best Errol Flynn style and went to her aid. She had a tiny pot of dill she had been given by “this sweet old lady” (who was probably my aunt and not all that old, if you don’t mind!). She was learning to cook, Ophelia explained, and thought if the plant grew big enough soon enough, she could clip some of it to make scrod with dill sauce when her boyfriend came up to visit.
Well, that pretty well answered one question about Ophelia. She was straight. But what the hell, I liked her anyhow. Some of my best friends were straight. Sure, I’d be glad to help with the planting. Noting that the van was gone, which meant Nick was also probably gone, we ventured into the garage and found a small trowel. We got the little plant gently into the ground and watered it, with Ophelia kneeling to give it a final maternal pat, when our resident journalist strolled up behind us. And the morning had been so pleasant!
“What a charming bucolic scene! What are you doing, my dear, praying you finally will stop fucking up your dialogue?”
Ophelia stood, smiling sweetly. “Oh, I may pray for this and that. But at least I’m on my knees only when I’m praying, not while I try to remember what’s being said during what I euphemistically call an ‘interview.’”
It took Terese, not to mention me, several seconds to catch on to what Ophelia meant. When she did, she gasped and her face turned an alarming red and she screamed, “You cheap little bitch! How dare you insinuate I’d have to do that to get an interview with any man!”
Obviously, I had no idea what Terese might do for a juicy quote, but certainly her anger was genuine, as evidenced by her intended swipe at Ophelia’s cheek. The younger woman grabbed her arm and held it. “Don’t fuck with me, lady. I was raised in a section of New York where you’d just be pigeon goo on the windowsill.” She flung Terese’s arm roughly away and walked toward the house, calling back, “Alex, thanks for your help. Sorry we were interrupted.”
I saw Terese’s eyes drop to the nearby trowel. I stepped on it heavily. “Don’t even go there. You started it. All she did was defend herself.”
“What are you, the peace police?”
“If need be, now let it go.” I picked up the trowel and walked toward the garage as Terese turned and moved toward the front sidewalk.
Entering the dimness of the building, I nearly walked right into the firm, stocky body of Nick Peters. Whoever was away in the van, it wasn’t the stage manager. He’d been around somewhere all along.
“Oh!” I said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” I held up the trowel. “Just putting this away. I won’t bother anything.”
He nodded. “No problem,” he said with surprising mildness. “She’s a real bitch, isn’t she? Good thing you stepped on that garden thing.”
“You think she might really have hurt Ophelia?” I laid the tool back where I’d found it.
“Terese would willingly do anything she thinks would further her impressive career as what she considers a Pulitzer-quality journalist,” a voice behind me said bitterly.
Hamlet had come out of the house, unseen, and quietly joined us. “I have a word for her, but women hate to hear it, so I won’t say it. But she will pry, lie, play one person against another, never minding whom she hurts, nor how badly, if it gets her one more column inch of space in that filthy rag! You’d think she was out to win the Pulitzer Prize for the junk she writes.”
If David gave half the emotion of that little speech to his stage speeches, his Hamlet might indeed go down in history.
“She always looks at you like she knows something about you,” Nick added. “Something you don’t know she knows. I think she gets her jollies off on that.”
“I think you may be right,” I said. “That type would rather have you on edge about an unprovable rumor than to face you down with facts. It’s more fun to watch you squirm.”
“She probably does know something about you.” David laughed shortly. “After all, we’ve all got a thing or two in our lives we’d like to keep quiet, and she’s just the one to ferret it out. So just watch your back, Nick!” He punched the smaller man playfully on the shoulder.
Nick reacted as if he’d been plugged into a light socket. In a nanosecond he had the front of David�
�s shirt bunched in his hand and was poking him hard in the chest with the forefinger of his other hand, as he backed him out of the garage and onto the concrete driveway. “What are you talking about? What did that god-damn woman say? Well, it isn’t true, whatever she claimed!”
David grabbed Nick’s arm and tried to stop the poking. “Nothing! Nothing! I just meant what I said. Stop that, Nick. It hurts!” He threw a clumsy punch at Nick’s head, and they went down together, rolling on the driveway, David screaming, “Don’t get my face in the gravel!”
And Nick screaming back, “Then tell me what she said!”
“She said nothing. I just meant she’d love to have something on you, like she figures she does on me, and Elaine, and everybody else! Christ, I could kill her for this!” They continued to roll, grapple, punch. Obviously neither man had spent much time in the ring.
I was still debating whether to get in the middle of this scuffle, when Paul Carlucci catapulted out the back door and onto the drive. He pulled them apart. “Nick! David! Quit this! Right now! Nick, do not hurt his face. Both of you, quit! All right, all right. That’s better. What on earth started this?” He looked curiously at me.
“Don’t look at me, I was just returning a garden tool.” I lifted both hands in innocence.
“Terese.” Both men spat out the name simultaneously.
“Oh. Well, I’ll handle it later.” He sighed with heavy resignation. And suddenly I was quite certain where Ms. Segal was embedded. “David, come get in the car. I want you to see a doctor about that scrape.”
“It’s nothing, Paul. Some Neosporin will do it,” Hamlet said rather wearily.
“David, I said get in the car. We can’t neglect this. It could get infected, and I have no intention of your going on stage looking like the phantom of the opera. Nick, I’m sure you have things to do. Alex, perhaps you’ll forgive us if we leave now?”
And the theme music came up on Father Knows Best.
And I realized he actually had finished a sentence.
I went back to the house, suitably abashed, to be greeted by a worried Fargo. He wasn’t used to hearing yells and seeing fights, and apparently he didn’t like them. Neither did I. I was strangely shaken by the two arguments I’d just witnessed. I felt as if the four people were all yelling and fighting over one thing, with something else not said.
Picking up the kitchen phone, I called Cindy and suggested we spend a night or two at the cottage. She obviously heard something in my voice, and simply replied, “Of course. Why don’t you go on over now and I’ll pick up some take-out for dinner. If you’ll take over my yellow dress with the white jacket for work tomorrow, that’ll do it. See you there around six.”
I took Fargo and the dress and went over to the cottage and opened windows and doors and then went out to play with the kinder. I would roll/bounce a small ball down the little dock. Fargo would trail along behind it and jump into the pond to retrieve it. Wells would try to catch it en route, and was sometimes successful, in which case she would grab it and make a soccer run onto the lawn, guiding it with her paws. Then Fargo and I would have to chase her and get it back. I guess they enjoyed the game. I did.
Shortly after six, I made a small pitcher of bourbon old fashioneds, and, yes, I know it’s better to make them individually. I put pitcher, glasses and ice onto a table on the deck, moved two chairs close together, lit a cigarette and sat down to wait. But not for long.
Cindy came around the side of the cottage and up the steps, bearing a plastic bag.
Fargo and I each got a glancing pat as she went inside, saying, “I wasn’t very inspired. We’ve got fried chicken, coleslaw and potato salad. Plebian enough?”
“We didn’t have to cook it. I don’t care how plebian it is. I made old fashioneds, want one?”
“Ah, yes, now that ain’t plebian. Be right out.”
And she was. Now attired in shorts and T-shirt, she gave me one of those special Cindy kisses that could never be perfunctory and sat down with her drink. I told her of the day’s events and she nodded. “No wonder you wanted to get away. I don’t know how people live as actors. You know, they’re trained to be able—in a play—to turn on any emotion required for X-number of minutes and then just turn it off again. How do you simply stop being angry or scared or in love or . . . evil, right on cue? And in real life, how do you know if you’re responding to a situation with your emotions or the actor’s? This drink is delicious.” She took another sip.
I recalled, “There’s an old song my grandfather used to sing: I was a fool when I believed you, when said you’d never leave me, when you’ve never told the truth in all your life. Not that actors are necessarily liars, at all. But it would raise the question, wouldn’t it?”
“Yep. Of course, sometimes we all do it to a degree. We act interested in a business meeting when we’re bored stiff. Or we get it together to be gracious and charming at some party we could sleep through. But we’re pushing, doing it deliberately because it’s part of our job, or to be courteous to our friends. We are fully aware of what we’re doing. With actors, I wonder if there isn’t a gray area where they either don’t know exactly what it is they’re feeling or don’t admit it. Hand me one of your cigarettes. I feel dangerous.”
“I don’t know how you do that. Once you smoke one, don’t you want to go out and buy a pack?” I lit one for her, passed it over, and lit another for myself.
“My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure.” She removed the cigarette regally from her mouth, posed and blew a delicate puff of smoke.
“Yeah, sure. You in your Bette Davis mode?” We sat quietly for a while, watching some gulls circling off to the left and a pair of Canada geese moving lazily on the pond. Fargo had his eyes on the geese but couldn’t quite be bothered. Wells pounced across the grass after some unseen critter. The sun started down behind the dunes, like a round, red lens saying “Smile.”
“We’d miss this if we didn’t have it, wouldn’t we?” Cindy asked.
“Yes, indeed. I know it sounds silly to have a ‘getaway’ place just a mile from your regular house, but at times like this, it’s priceless.” I waved my hand to encompass everything in sight.
“Sometimes we both need it, sometimes I need it for myself alone. Do you ever need it alone?” She held up her empty glass.
I got up and gave us both refills. “No, not alone, not yet, anyway. Sometimes I like being here just with the animals before you get here.”
“But you might need it, and it should be here if you do. We can afford it, you know.”
“Yes, in a way, of course I know we can. At least for now. But what about thirty years from now, old age creeping up. Seems like you should start saving for it in kindergarten.” I looked over at her.
“Nursery school is better.”
I swished the ice in my drink. “And it seems a bit extravagant, sort of conspicuous consumption, you know? A couple of people have made some veiled comments. It would be different, maybe, if it were up in New Hampshire or Maine, I guess. It’s just that it’s so close.”
She shrugged. “Let ’em talk. We need it, we can pay for it, we got it. We’re well invested. You’ve got your own IRA now, plus you’re putting away the money we save having you on my medical insurance. I’ve got a good 401K at the bank. Leave old age up to me. When you start doddering, we’ll be able to buy you a cane.” Her words were light, but her voice was very firm.
“You sound very certain,” I said.
“I am. We need a getaway Alex, for us, for me, and in a sense for you, even if you never spend one night alone here. You need to think you have some safe little escape hatch, or someday you’ll get up a head of steam and make a big breakout we’ll both regret.” She ground out her cigarette emphatically.
Hey, wait a minute, I thought, those are my lines. “Darling,” I began haltingly. I wasn’t ready for this. I needed time to make sure it would all sound the way I wanted it to. “I love you and—”
“I know you do,” she interrupted. “And I love you. That’s why I’m saying all this. It isn’t exactly easy. Remember my bugbear about one of us coming home changed by a trip? It wasn’t easy for me to admit that, but it did seem much less frightening in the light of day. I think we’ve all got bugbears that may seem silly to other people, but can scare us into doing really stupid things. Like my getting bitchy or needy every time one of us is going away.”
“I suppose so. I guess it’s just a matter of working through them,” I hedged.
“Well, you’ve got a similar one you won’t even talk about at all. You’re afraid of being tied too tight, right? You’re afraid of losing yourself. You’re afraid you can’t hack it, right?”
I clutched her hand as if it were all that was keeping me from falling off a cliff, and maybe it was. “Well, maybe in some ways . . . yes . . . oh, hell, you’re right.” And suddenly it all came bubbling out. Once begun, it would not be stopped. She listened, without laughing or criticizing or getting angry or teary, without disagreeing or adding her own little interpretations.
So there were all my fears and doubts, spread before her like the unappealing wares left on a tag sale bargain table. She still remained silent, merely bending forward to pick up her glass and drain it. I wondered if she were trying to think of a nice way to say good-bye.
Finally, she spoke. “I was trying to think of a good way to put this, and I can’t, really. But think of this: visualize a giant piece of paper with a graph on it. Starting at the left margin there are two lines, one blue, one red. They go across the paper, sometimes together, sometimes one moving a little up or a little down, crossing, re-crossing, going along together or slightly apart till they reach the right-hand margin.” She took another cigarette from the pack on the table, but I made no comment.
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